


Strain

by LuxObscura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet, Gen, ballet!lock, balletlock, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxObscura/pseuds/LuxObscura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a Principle dancer.  New hire John Watson is a Soloist with a painful secret.  John catches Sherlock after rehearsal and a familiar dialogue ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strain

Sherlock lowers himself into the ice bath with a hiss.  He feels his skin ripple with gooseflesh for a few seconds before the sting of cold obliterates all finer sensation.  His testicles try to make a tactical retreat up inside his body as he settles himself as comfortably as he can manage, leaning against the sloped back of the tub, feet hanging over the far edge — wouldn’t do to get frostbitten toes.  That would be a career-ender.  He’ll ice his toes later, separately and with greater care and delicacy than full immersion can provide.  

A cup of tea steams at his hand, hot and honeyed.  He sips at it, not caring if it burns his tongue as long as it warms his core.  A glance at the clock confirms he has five more minutes on ice before a hot shower.

Eyes closed, Sherlock runs through today’s notes while another part of his mind counts down the seconds.  He’s visualizing the flexion and extension of his left hip to get the angle on his left leg just so when the door to the locker room bangs open and Sherlock jumps.  Ice cubes clack and water sloshes onto the tile floor.

“Sorry, sorry.  Didn’t mean to intrude.  I just needed— is that an ice bath?”  The interloper is compact, well-muscled, dishwater blond and obviously new to the troupe.

“Obviously.”  Sherlock narrows his eyes and stares.  End of career rapidly approaching, more skill than talent, not lead material but solid, dependable, more apt to fill character roles.  In much more pain than he lets on.  Wants to make it another year or two before retiring, hopefully to teach.  Boilerplate.  Boring.  Insipidly dull.  Unforgivably—

“I said I hope you know what you’re doing because hypothermia is no joke, mate.”

“One minute thirty seven seconds.  And I’m not your mate.”

“No, but you are the principle for this season so I’m seriously hoping you don’t do yourself a mischief.  It’d be a sin if Dimmock had to take over.”

 Sherlock snorts.  “That idiot couldn’t get proper extension if he used a block and tackle.”

There’s a scoff from the other man.  “Could be, but he’s still second principle.”

“You’ll need to be cautious, but you can make it.  Only just,” Sherlock says without preamble.

“Sorry, what?”

“Two more years.  If you’re cautious, don’t take risks, your back will hold out for two more years and then you can retire and teach.”

“Excuse me, but what the hell are you talking about?”

Sherlock sighs.  He’s tedious.  Of course he’s tedious.  Everyone is.  But by his count he has forty-two seconds left in his bath so she takes a deep breath and forges on.  “The way you hold yourself, guarding against too much twisting and bending, your back pains you but you don’t want to show it.  You need this job, won’t find another one if you’re let go.  Too risky to rely on narcotic painkillers so you use mostly moist heat and anti-inflammatories.  You’re right to be cautious but if you continue as you have been you’ll be able to finish out your contract and then retire to teaching.”

“Sorry, how can you _possibly_ know—“

“I don’t know, I _observe_.”  Sherlock hoists himself out of the bath and strides past the new hire, intent on a warm shower and eventually a cigarette on the walk home.  

“That was—“  Sherlock braces for the inevitable onslaught of abuse, “—incredible.”  

Sherlock pauses, naked, red and dripping cold water, one hand on his towel.  “Was it?” he breathes.

“I’ve only just started with the company and I haven’t even admitted that plan to myself, but you knew.  Somehow.  I’d say that counts as incredible.”

“Well.  That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“ _Piss off you fucking faggot_.”  Sherlock punctuates the last word by twisting the shower knob and stepping under the spray, effectively drowning out any reply.


End file.
